


All's Fair

by Hermaline75



Series: Five for Edith/Lucille [1]
Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Army, Crossdressing, Cunnilingus, Disguise, F/F, Femslash February, First Time, Historical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:41:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22202014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermaline75/pseuds/Hermaline75
Summary: Edgar Cushing signs up for the war and is definitely not a girl in disguise.Also she... Er,heis very worried about the way Sgt Sharpe keeps looking at him.
Relationships: Edith Cushing/Lucille Sharpe
Series: Five for Edith/Lucille [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1598167
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	All's Fair

**Author's Note:**

> Since there are five Saturdays this February, I've decided to play the five trope game for five short unrelated Edith/Lucille AUs.
> 
> Basically, you go to TV Tropes, hit the "random trope" button five times and crowbar the tropes that come up into a fic.
> 
> The five for this story are:  
> 1\. Not This One, That One  
> 2\. Concussion Frags  
> 3\. Human Cannonball  
> 4\. Exploding Barrels  
> 5\. Different for Girls
> 
> So, naturally...

Women were not allowed in the army.

Therefore, anyone trying to enlist was not a woman. And it would be simply ridiculous to think that they were.

That was what Edith kept telling herself as she tried to walk confidently down towards the little makeshift hut on the outskirts of the army camp beyond the town, a tent really, all mud green and ropes like sinews.

Coming to an unfamiliar place and cutting her hair had been easy, hacking off blonde waves to leave something more like a scrubbing brush. She'd had to take up the legs on her father's old trousers and had done her best to tie down anything that might make her shape somehow wrong. And she'd practised the voice.

Not too low, nothing that would strain her. Close to her natural tones, just... gruffer. More mumbly, less likely to attract attention.

All the same, as she tried to set her jaw forward, trying her best to seem unfeminine, she could feel her bravery beginning to ebb away.

She'd practised though. Practised and practised. She had her false name, her false signature, her false reasons for wanting to go to war.

_"Yes, sir, defending the homeland, sir..."_

Nothing about the father she knew was even now in a prisoner of war camp, waiting for her to rescue him.

It was a stupid plan and deep down she knew it. There was no guarantee that she would be sent to the right area, no guarantee that she'd survive that long, no guarantee that she wasn't about to be discovered, ridiculed and sent home.

If Alan was here, he'd tell her it was stupid. But he wasn't. He was off in a battalion somewhere, who even knew how far from home?

As she approached the front of the line, more worries started to bubble up in her mind. What if there was a medical inspection of some kind? What if she had to undress? What if, despite all the odds, someone here recognised her?

"Name?" the man at the desk barked, not even looking up.

"Er... Edgar. Edgar Cushing."

Oh, her voice was too high, it was obvious...

"Show me your hands."

"I... What?"

"Hands, now."

She held them up, aware that they seemed small, delicate, unmanly...

"Very good. Teeth."

She bared them at him, unsure what exactly was happening.

"Fingers to pull a trigger, teeth to rip open your powder bags. Welcome to the army, Private Cushing. Mark here and pass out through the back."

Even her trembling handwriting didn't seem to tip him off, nor her uncertain footsteps out through the rear flap of the tent and into another world.

There were men here. A lot of men. Edith couldn't help the wideness of her eyes, the obvious shock on her face. There were whole groups of them running and practising with bayonets and some... Some shirtless and washing out in the open from tin basins.

Oh, this was a mistake, she shouldn't have come here...

"New boys, over there!"

Almost mechanically, she walked where the finger pointed, into a larger tent, alive with hubbub and chatter, full of new recruits.

"Pick a side!" a voice called from up ahead. "Sit down. Fill the benches completely, please! There's room down the front, blondy!"

Edith ended up in the third row on the left, feeling very small and out of place and afraid.

"What's happening?" she asked the man next to her, finding herself squeezed between two sets of broad shoulders.

"We're being split between the sergeants for training. On this side, we're with Sharpe."

Edith tried to peer through the bodies, trying to look at the men standing on a raised wooden platform.

Surely he meant the one on stage right, the one closest to them... He had a lined but ruggedly handsome face, dark blonde hair, eyes that were cool but not cold. Already, Edith could almost imagine following him into battle. He'd be tough, but fair.

"No, no. No, the other one."

Her eyes slipped sideways to the other figure.

Oh... Oh, dear.

Younger, she thought, and with beautifully smooth skin that had to have been shaved with the finest razor, but those eyes wandering up and down the rows of recruits... They almost made her shiver.

Sharpe's gaze fell upon her, ceasing in its roaming and Edith did not think she had ever been looked at so thoroughly in all her life. For the first time, she thought she might properly understand the concept of a piercing look.

He smirked at her and then moved on.

Edith exhaled a held breath.

For a moment, she'd been certain that somehow he knew...

***

Three days later and Edith wasn't convinced that she'd ever not be tired again. She ached in places she hadn't even known existed. They said they were trying to get them up to a level of fitness that would keep them alive and that seemed to mean endless running, impossibly heavy bags, learning to catch her breath in shorter and shorter times...

She still hadn't managed more than about five push-ups in a row, but at least she wasn't the only one. She was slow, but not the slowest, weak but not the weakest. She was getting by.

All the same, her muscles screamed at her constantly from the moment she rolled out of her narrow bunk in the morning to when she half fell into it at night.

Her disguise seemed to be holding up so far, she thought. She'd managed to avoid washing with the others, managed to pee in the woods. No one suspected.

Except one, maybe.

Sgt Sharpe was a near constant presence, running with them, embarking on hikes, shouting orders and rebukes.

Edith had seen him looking at her more than once. It was never her name he was shouting and somehow that worried her. Did he expect her to quit? Was it not even worth learning her name? Did he know her secret? Was it amusing for him to see her try so hard and then to dash her plans?

Her legs hurt as she tugged on her new uniform, everyone's back turned for what little privacy they could get, desperately not looking at each other. She'd tried stuffing socks into her underwear at first but she wasn't sure anyone cared enough to look. She could probably walk around naked and everyone would just assume she was a dream brought on by lack of sleep.

She was buttoning up, sleep shirt covering her bindings, when Sgt Sharpe entered the tent without warning.

"Look lively, boys. First day of rifle training today. Bring your good eyes. Five minutes!"

Did Edith imagine the quick up and down look? She wasn't sure, but fell into line and trooped out, up towards the firing range.

The sounds from it... All day long, bang, bang, boom. She actually liked the hikes away from camp as a bit of respite.

Though, of course, maybe she ought to get used to it. It was the sound of the battlefield, after all.

She still wasn't necessarily looking forward to having a heavy piece of metal in her hand.

"Your gun is your responsibility," Sharpe said as they were each issued one, along with a set of bullets for the day. "You must always know where it is, store it securely, keep it clean. I can tell you horror stories of what happens to the men who neglect simple maintenance and, let me tell you, if a camp is overrun then God help you if your weapon falls into enemy hands."

Edith watched carefully as the line in front of her learned to load, aim and fire. There were barrels halfway up the field with targets drawn on the sides, occasionally being replaced once they'd had a few too many holes blown in them.

Edith tried desperately not to think of what it would do to a person...

Sharpe walked along the line as some of the barrels were changed, checking each recruit's hold, saying something about the kick back from a shot, how to absorb it in your shoulder.

His hands were cold but gentle, moving Edith's grip and helping her position herself correctly. It was a purely functional touch and yet Edith was sure her cheeks had gone a little pink, startled to be caught staring as he drew away to walk around behind them, pulling out his binoculars for a better look at their shots.

"Right, number one, fire when ready."

He missed, quite badly if the tutting was accurate, and Edith was relieved. She just had to hit it, nothing more than that.

Two and three were successful, her heart rate growing faster and faster, certain that the shaking in her hands was going to make her hit something in the next county.

"Lucky you, number four," Sharpe said. "Virgin barrel. Be able to see your shot clear as day."

Deep breath, steady. Nice and calm.

She pulled the trigger, the sound so loud, like it had come from all around her.

And then somehow she was on her back, blinded by light, distantly hearing screams and yells all around her.

Sgt Sharpe loomed into view above her, all wide eyes and worry, turning to fury once he confirmed she was more or less unhurt.

"The barrels are meant to be empty! When I find out which imbecile is responsible, I'll have their spleen for breakfast. Cushing, are you hurt, boy?"

He knew her name after all.

"Don't... Don't think so, sir."

"My tent, now. You'll be needing something to settle your nerves."

Cautiously sitting up, Edith caught sight of the devastion. Her barrel had exploded somehow, leaving a crater in the landscape and scattered shrapnel. No one seemed hurt, thankfully, but Sharpe was right, she was shaken.

Someone helped her up and pushed her in something like the right direction, the gun held limply in her hand as she stumbled into Sharpe's private tent.

It couldn't be called luxurious by any means or particularly big. There was a standard bunk, a desk with a lot of paperwork strewn across it, a map pinned to one of the canvas walls, some half-darned socks on top of a trunk.

Only one chair, though. After considering for a moment, Edith decided sitting on the end of the bunk would cause the least disruption, even if she was embarrassed to realise she was sitting on a man's bed.

She'd been sitting there for a couple of minutes when Sharpe entered, a face like thunder softening when he saw her.

"Prank gone wrong, apparently," he said. "Trying to scare the new recruits by tying a frag inside one of the barrels. At least no harm done beyond the shock. Speaking of which..."

He knelt and opened the trunk, rattling through it, producing a dark bottle and two small glasses, filling them almost to the brim.

"What is it?" Edith asked.

"Port. Good stuff too."

At least it was familiar. For a moment, Edith had been worried about what sort of concoction she was going to have to swallow.

Now... how did men drink port? She'd been following the others' example to gulp the mugs of weak beer they were served with every meal, but this was a little different.

It was also different that Sharpe came and sat down beside her, his short dark hair loosely swept back, handing over a glass.

"Cheers, Cushing."

"Cheers, sir."

Sipping seemed to be what they were doing. That was alright. She could handle that.

Gosh, and it was nice too.

"You know, I see a lot of myself in you," Sharpe said, swirling his glass. "Back when I was green and uncertain."

Edith hesitated. Was she meant to say something in response? Maybe.

"I can't imagine you ever being uncertain, sir," she said.

A chuckle.

"I learn fast. That's the most important thing. And you will too. You're clearly smart enough."

Edith didn't know what to say to that, sipping the rest of her port in slightly awkward silence.

"Feeling better?"

"A little, yes. Thank you, sir."

"Lunch will be getting underway soon, I think. Off you go."

She stood up and handed over her glass, acutely aware when their fingers brushed together. But she wasn't blushing, not even when their eyes met for the briefest moment.

"Cushing," he said as she reached the tent flap.

"Yes, sir?"

"Try not to worry too much. Everyone else is pretending too."

Edith felt her eyes widen, fear surely all over her face.

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

A smile, a shrug.

"Think about it."

***

Edith was thinking about it. She thought of nothing else all through lunch even as she shrugged off her brush with danger and then all through the afternoon drills and through dinner and into the night.

He knew. He had to know. Why would he say something like that unless he knew?

And yet he hadn't exposed her? Why?

Did he want something in return?

The thought of it filled her with some terror and yet somehow not with disgust as such. He was very attractive after all, lithe and tall and with such striking eyes.

If she was going to have to do that... Well, she could think of worse people, that was all.

She couldn't sleep. How could she not sleep? She was so tired. All around her, everyone else was, snoring in some cases. But she couldn't. She couldn't rest.

No. No, she had to do something about this.

Shoving her feet into unlaced boots, shivering a little in the cold air, she slipped out of bed and through the camp, hoping any night guards would assume she was just out to piss.

Heart pounding in her ears, she sneaked towards Sharpe's tent, carefully easing the ties on the flap apart just enough to get inside.

She could hardly see him in the dark, an idea of a shape in the bed, very little breathing. Her footsteps were almost silent as she weighed up her options.

What if he didn't know? What excuse could she have for being here in the middle of the night? None, really. And yet she was certain he did know, sure of it.

She'd almost reached the bunk when he rolled over, pistol in hand.

"Oh, it's you," he said, sighing and letting the gun fall to the floor. "You'd make a good assassin, creeping around like that. What do you want?"

Edith willed herself not to stammer, to be calm and firm.

"The real question is what you want, sir," she said softly.

Another sigh, a faint scrabbling sound and finally a match flaring to life, the bed lamp quickly lit and revealing him. Edith swallowed hard. Despite the sleep shirt, she could see so much. His neck particularly. It was so smooth and elegant as he rubbed at it.

"Why would I want anything from you?"

"Because... You know why!"

"Alright. What could you possibly be offering me?"

"You know that too."

He stared at her for a moment, waiting for her to blink and she refused. She would be strong in this indignity.

"Very well," he said, throwing the blanket back. "Come here."

No weakness, no hesitation. Edith strode forward, slipping out of her boots and straddling him, a little hum of pleased surprise in response.

"Anyone would think you've done this before, Private Cushing."

She shook her head. But she was no innocent either, she knew the mechanics. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he sat up, waiting, trying not to shiver as he ran a thumb over her lips and leant forward to kiss her.

It was not... bad. In fact, she rather liked it, a certain shameful excitement building in her, a heat even. She knew she was clumsy as she kissed back but he seemed to appreciate it, a hand cradling her head as he laid her back among the sheets, pulling back to loom over her.

He was dreadfully handsome up close...

A soft sigh, another more gentle kiss.

"You're very beautiful," he murmured. "But before we do this, I think it's only fair that you know my secret too."

Edith felt almost bereft as he rolled off her and stood up, missing the weight. She didn't dare move as he returned to his trunk and clicked something in the lid, some hidden compartment, producing a large roll of paper.

He held it out to her, obliging her to sit up and unroll it.

"I trust you can read."

"Yes, sir."

It was a circus poster. Two figures, a man and a woman, very alike. Same dark hair, same fine cheekbones, same elegance even in a still image.

_The daring Sharpe Siblings perform feats of daring and wonder. The human cannonball, the high-wire, bareback horse riding and fire eating - nothing is too dangerous for this fearless duo!_

She knew that face. And not the brother's, even though they were very similar.

"It's you," Edith said softly. "You're... You're a..."

Taking the poster back, Sharpe removed his sleep shirt, revealing something not completely dissimilar to what she was wearing to bind her breasts.

"I wasn't kidding when I said I saw a lot of myself in you," he... No, maybe _she_ said. "And if you want to go back to bed now and pretend this never happened, then we'll say no more about it. I quite understand."

Edith still wasn't sure she wasn't dreaming.

"I thought I was the only one," she said. 

"It's more common than you might think. Of course, some live their whole lives as men, feel that's the way they've always been and ought to be. Some have just noticed you can earn a lot more as a soldier than in domestic servive. Some are following a brother or a sweetheart. I've even met a few husband and wife teams who sign up together. Works quite well unless she gives birth on the battlefield. But it makes me wonder which one you are..."

"Which what?"

A crooked smile as she carefully hid the poster away.

"Well, are you here for money and adventure or for something else?"

Well, if they were telling secrets...

"My father," Edith said. "He's been captured. A man of almost sixty. He shouldn't even be out there. He should be at home, safe."

Sharpe - and at least that hadn't changed - joined her on the bed again, making her very aware of bare skin and arms...

"No sweetheart, then?"

"No. No, I have a dear male friend out there somewhere but I don't..."

"Don't feel like that towards him?"

"Mm."

There was a moment of silence before Sharpe moved, a gentle hand against her cheek, turning her until they were face to face.

"I notice you haven't gone back to bed yet."

"No."

She didn't miss the flick of a glance down to her lips, the hesitation, almost asking permission. And Edith burned with desire even as she hesitated. Was this right? Was this...?

She had liked being kissed though. She'd really liked it.

Shy, unsure, she leant forward, pressing their mouths together softly and carefully. Sharpe let her explore, opening her mouth slightly, daring to touch her even.

Somehow, she ended up on her back again, shirtless, Sharpe's hands at her bindings.

"May I remove these?"

Edith nodded, sitting up to make it easier. She'd almost forgotten what it was like to be without them.

Sharpe frowned, setting them aside, running her fingers lightly along the lines left behind.

"Try not to tie too tightly," she murmured. "You can really hurt yourself. It's much easier in the field - padded armour hides a lot, you won't even need these."

And then she replaced her fingers with her lips, kissing along Edith's ribs and, oh...

Oh, that felt good, her breathing so fast and already arching up, her whole body jumping as Sharpe took one of her nipples into her mouth.

She didn't understand how it could feel so good and yet she was almost squirming, her lips held tightly together in an effort to stop herself making any noise.

It was more and more difficult as Sharpe kissed down her torso, undoing the buttons on her uniform trousers and pulling them off.

Despite her uncertainty, Edith found herself parting her legs, looking down her own body to the dark head between her thighs, the blue eyes looking up at her.

"Tell me to stop if you want."

Edith shook her head. She wanted this.

"Alright."

The first pass of a tongue had her gasping, so strange but good too, a little voice in the back of her mind pointing out how strange it was that someone so handsome would want her like this.

Another lick, another, and then a steady rhythm against the most sensitive part of her body, arching up desperately, her hands gravitating to Sharpe's head, hair unexpectedly soft.

She wished it was long enough to properly run her fingers into.

The mattress shifted, Sharpe sliding her hand into her own trousers, seeking her pleasure too. Edith wanted to help, wanted to please her, but she knew she wouldn't have the first idea of where to start and...

"Mm!"

She couldn't hold back, a high sound escaping her throat even as she covered her mouth, an irresistible desire racing through her, desperate and needy, feeling like something within her was about to burst.

But in a good way. It was not an explosion or a bang but a wave, building up behind a dam, building, building, building, soon to overwhelm.

It came in a rush, her body jerking and back arching upwards, gasping. Oh, it was exquisite, more than she could stand, too much, pushing Sharpe away.

As she lay panting, Sharpe crawled up her body, kissing what was left of her breath away, her hand still working her own flesh, finally giving a sigh, a shiver, smiling down at her.

"Was that what you expected?" she asked. "When you came sneaking through the night?"

Edith blinked, almost drunk with sensation.

"No," she managed. "Not at all."

Somehow, she got dressed again, Sharpe helping re-wrap her bindings more gently than she had done them herself.

"Were you really a human cannonball?" Edith asked. "Isn't it dangerous?"

"Of course. It's not a real cannon, though, more like a big spring. But I learned other things in the circus besides how to fall. I learned to play many parts. I learned that most people are pretending to be something they're not and that you can hide among them, if you're careful."

She smiled, pulling Edith in for a last kiss.

"So, what's your real name, Edgar Cushing?"

"Edith."

A nod, a hand held out to shake.

"Lucille."

Lucille... It suited her.

"Go to bed, Private. I'll see you bright and early for drills."

On almost shaky legs, Edith made her way back through the camp and into her own bunk.

Army life was turning out to be very interesting indeed.


End file.
